


Phóbos kai Apotychía

by Pircival



Series: An Honest Attempt at Normalcy [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anxiety, Claustrophobia, Gen, Horror, Oddly-Relatable Floor Lamps, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Universe, Panic Attacks, Psychological Horror, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:08:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27396229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pircival/pseuds/Pircival
Summary: Sitting down in one of the only two chairs in the office, Miachel began to take a look around the inside of the room in an attempt to familiarize himself with the space. Everything that he could see was in pristine condition, despite the fact that several of the pieces of furniture were quite old; no matter how hard he looked, he was entirely unable to see even a singular sign or age or any hint of even slight uncleanliness, not one scratch, scuff, dent, or dusty spot could be seen. Along the walls of the room were seven bookshelves, their dark, stained wood contrasting against the deep, rich crimson color of the wallpaper behind them. Every single one was filled with a variety of different books, all arranged in neat, tidy rows, leaving no empty space in the shelves. Each volume was different from the next, their exposed spines creating unique collages of colors.-----Miachel came here to ask for a raise, not to freak out over furniture. But hey, sometimes these things happen.
Series: An Honest Attempt at Normalcy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001379
Kudos: 2





	Phóbos kai Apotychía

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! This piece is a part of a collection of short stories that follow a variety of events surrounding one Miachel Joseph Keighton, a 26-year old office worker who's just trying to do his best with what he's been given. I hope you enjoy! : ]
> 
> _TW: this piece is meant to make the reader feel nervous, uneasy, and anxious, and the seventh, eighth, and ninth paragraphs describe the main character's thoughts and feelings during a panic attack, so please either skip those particular paragraphs or the entirety of the piece itself if any of that might cause you to panic._

The first thing that he noticed as he entered the room was the stillness of it all. Everything in the space seemed somehow static, like the entire room had become frozen in time. It appeared as if not even a single speck of dust could muster the courage to float through the air, and none of the dark, smooth oak flooring dared to do so much as creak under his shoes as he stepped inside, the silence weighing heavy on his shoulders. He walked carefully, fearing that even a single audible footfall would disturb the deathly quiet. 

Closing the door behind himself with a gentle ‘click’, Miachel took a moment to let his eyes adjust as he stepped across the large circular rug on the floor, allowing himself to admire its delicate pattern of red, black, and gold. In stark contrast to the bright, white, crisp lights of the hallway just outside, the office was significantly dimmer. The handful of perfectly-spaced ceiling fixtures, arranged in a simple grid on the plain white ceiling, worked together to bathe everything in a dim, yellow-tinted light. Aside from the thin strip lights hanging neatly overhead, the only source of light was a singular black floor lamp, standing with a bent top as if it were cowering; it seemed almost like it was afraid to straighten up to its full height. 

As he made his way through the room, he became acutely aware of the faint scent of old books and cigarette smoke, as well as something else that he could only describe as a stereotypical ‘hospital’ smell; the combination of different cleaners, disinfectants, and something more foul that he couldn’t quite place ticked the back of his mind. The air itself was cold, and it’s lower-than-average temperature made Miachel wish that he had thought to bring his coat, despite it being in the mid-70’s outside, the lack of clouds or wind allowing the sun to make everything soothingly warm. 

Sitting down in one of the only two chairs in the office, Miachel began to take a look around the inside of the room in an attempt to familiarize himself with the space. Everything that he could see was in pristine condition, despite the fact that several of the pieces of furniture were quite old; no matter how hard he looked, he was entirely unable to see even a singular sign or age or any hint of even slight uncleanliness, not one scratch, scuff, dent, or dusty spot could be seen. Along the walls of the room were seven bookshelves, their dark, stained wood contrasting against the deep, rich crimson color of the wallpaper behind them. Every single one was filled with a variety of different books, all arranged in neat, tidy rows, leaving no empty space in the shelves. Each volume was different from the next, their exposed spines creating unique collages of colors. 

Positioned against the wall alongside the bookshelves were two small metal filing cabinets, their sleek black exteriors showing no signs of wear, and a singular table made of wood, its color darkened by stain like all the wooden furniture in the room. An eye-catching collection of sculptures was displayed atop it, and it was glaringly obvious that- much like nearly every single object and item in the room- these sculptures most likely cost far more than Miachel would ever be able to pay. They were abstract, the limestone, obsidian, silver, and other various materials crafted into unnatural, bizarre shapes; one of the many pieces on the table was made of marble, and it delicately formed itself into a twisting mass of long, thin spires, each one appearing to be feverishly attempting to push down the others in it’s unhinged, unrelenting journey upwards to the heavens above it. All of the sculptures had their own tales to tell, but each and every story was lost in the unorthodox shapes, the true meanings obscured and buried by the various surreal forms. 

Miachel didn’t consider himself someone who got anxious easily (despite the overwhelming amount of evidence that pointed to the contrary), but he could feel his nerves beginning to grow in uneasy anticipation while he sat in his chair, it’s minimal padding and thin cushion doing little to help ease his mind or calm his restless nerves. As he continued to wait in tense silence, Miachel glanced across from himself, turning his attention towards the only other seat in the room. It was a decently-sized, dark red armchair that was identical to his own; the crimson leather exterior held securely together by rows of gold studs, the whole thing lifted about two inches off the floor by four thin black legs. Filling the space between the empty chair and his own occupied one stood a large, dark-stained wooden desk, its wooden form free of any type of imperfection. On top of it was a black, metal tray designed to hold papers, which lie empty in the right topmost corner of the desk, and a simple golden nameplate that had the words ‘Mr. C. Miller’ engraved onto the front in plain black print, resting front and center on the front of the desk. 

Now, Mr. Miller was the man whose office Miachel was currently sitting in, obviously, but at the present moment he was absent, leaving the room empty aside from Miachel himself and the array of furniture around him. Everything seemed to loom over him while he waited, and his anxiety began to reach its peak as he started to silently panic. Each bookshelf packed with books, the table displayed an array of abstract sculptures, the shiny black filing cabinets; it all seemed to crowd the small space, leaving no room to breathe, and he was half-convinced that he would begin to suffocate. All of the dark, towering furniture left Miachel feeling small and insignificant, a feeling that was wholly unnatural for him to experience. Despite his nervous disposition and lanky frame, he stood at a rather impressive 6’2”, making the uncomfortable sensation of being as pathetically minute as the room caused him to seem an incredibly foreign concept to him. 

It didn’t help Miachel’s panicked state that seemingly everything around him was ludicrously expensive; all of it appeared to be incredibly high-quality to him, and even the books were almost absolutely purchased for ridiculous prices from one place or the other. He felt dingy, cheap, and ultimately unimpressive compared to it all, the priceless sculptures, countless novels, sleek armchairs, even the large rug on the floor, it’s trio of colors weaving together in an intricate, ornate pattern. As Miachel sat there in his dark grey, ill-fitting, untailored slacks, secured around his waist with a belt in order to combat the fact that they were a size too big for him, wearing a cheap, plain, light-blue and long-sleeved button up shirt that he had forgotten to iron, and a pair of dark brown hand-me-down dress shoes from his father, it felt as though he were under-dressed and unfit to be there; every aspect of him appeared to be lacking in any sense of grandeur or wealth. Above all the feelings of minuteness, the thoughts of insignificance and lacking, he felt wholly unimportant, unable to hold his own as he was surrounded by perfection and subtle extravagance. 

Engulfed in a silent, paralyzing sense of panic, Miachel stayed in his chair, his mind consumed with a sense of worthlessness. And after what seemed to be an eternity, an endless period of self-doubt and anxiety, he became aware of something that he had completely ignored, all but forgotten in his unexpected frenzy of panic and shame. It was the black floor lamp, its tall and thin form positioned next to Mr. Miller’s desk. Standing there timidly, its thin black power cable stretched out behind it, creating a thin path to an outlet on the wall. It reminded Miachel of himself in a sense, as it stood surrounded by much larger, more expensive, highly interesting things. Unlike everything else in the room, the simple lamp seemed to be the only object that didn’t reek of money and extravagance, appearing to be nothing more than a plain, inexpensive lamp from the store. But despite this fact, despite it’s far smaller price tag and much cheaper make, the cowardly black light fixture served a purpose in the room; it helped to illuminate the space, and its bulb caused everything that was in its path to be washed in a dim, warm light. The spindly, uncertain lamp still had value and importance, even when compared to the other contents of the office. 

Using the simple black lamp as a sort of tether, Miachel slowly but surely began to pull himself back to reality; he was sitting in a red armchair, positioned inside a lavish office, waiting for his boss to show up. Checking his watch revealed that it was Saturday, August 15 th , 2:27pm, meaning that he still had at least three minutes left until his meeting with Mr. Miller was scheduled to start. They were going to be discussing the possibility of Miachel getting a raise, and he had decided to arrive at the office early in order to make a good impression, and to help his chances of actually getting a raise. 

Left with nothing to do but wait for the remainder of the time that he had to himself, Miachel sat in his chair and went over what he planned to say to Mr. Miller. He would occasionally stop for a moment to settle his nerves before they got out of hand, in which case he would close his eyes, count backwards from ten, and think about the thin black floor lamp, which continued to stand next to Mr. Miller’s desk, helping to light up the room despite its simple, cheap nature. Even though it may not have been the most ornate, most expensive object, it was still a uniquely important one, and the timid black lamp did its job all the same. 

_ Claustrophobia is the fear of confined or small spaces. A person with this phobia may experience panic attacks exposed to certain stimuli, such as windowless rooms or crowded areas. _

_ Someone with an inferiority complex may feel an acute sense of personal failure, worthlessness, or inability to measure up to those around them, and is often overly-timid and self-doubting. _

**Author's Note:**

>  **Phóbos kai Apotychía:** latin for 'fear and failure'.


End file.
